Read Online Sweet Mercy by Ann Tatlock - Free Book Online Page B

face with an open palm. “If you’re talking just about Prohibition, then no, it’s not that hard for you and me to keep the law. We’re not tempted by liquor like some are. That doesn’t mean, though, we won’t meet temptation in some other way. There’s not a man since Adam who hasn’t had his share of troubles.”
    I sighed; I didn’t want Daddy to get started on Original Sin. If we were all so bad, why did I find it so easy to be good?
    â€œWell, I guess I’ll go to bed,” I said. I gave Mother and Daddy each a kiss and wished them sweet dreams. Then I went to my own room, cradling my sense of self-righteousness like a rare and beautiful gift.

    After lunch the next day, a couple of Rolls-Royces eased over the graveled drive and came to rest in the far corner of the parking lot. I stopped sweeping the porch and watched slack-jawed as the driver of one of them jumped out and hurried to open the back passenger door. He stood erect as a soldier, eyes away from the lithe figure emerging from the car. The young woman wore a white dress, sleek and clingy, with a fur collar and a filmy waist-length cape. Her bleached blond hair was a ripple of tight marcelled waves that hungjust to her jawline. As she lifted a broad-brimmed hat to her head, the gemstone jewelry on her fingers and wrists sparkled and shimmered in the sun.
    The driver hurried around to the other side of the car and held open the door for the woman’s companion. He was a large fellow wearing a dark double-breasted suit and black-and-white wingtip shoes. A pink carnation was tucked into the buttonhole of his jacket, and a gold watch chain stretched across his ample waist. As he lifted his fedora and dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, his bejeweled hand sparkled too like the woman’s. He poked the handkerchief—surely it was silk—back into his breast pocket and then held out his arm to the white vision of loveliness that was walking around the car to meet him. They sauntered together toward the lodge as the driver turned back to the car to retrieve their luggage.
    Two men from the other Rolls-Royce, well dressed, though not quite so flamboyant, followed behind, each carrying a suitcase.
    What, I wondered, were these people doing here?
    The lodge was a nice place to visit, so far as that goes, and many of our guests were well off, but surely this man and his wife were used to the kind of luxury that most of us only dreamed of. They belonged in New York, Chicago, London, Paris. Why would they vacation on a tiny provincial island in the middle of an unremarkable river?
    I clutched the broom handle and, feeling very much like Cinderella, watched this man, his wife, and his entire entourage—including the suitcase-laden driver—climb the porch steps and enter the front hall. Not one of them so much as glanced at me in passing. I was an insentient partof the scenery, no different from the rocking chairs that lined the porch.
    Resting the broom against the railing, I moved to the door and stood just inside the threshold. Uncle Cy was coming around the front desk with his hand extended. “Mr. Sluder! Delighted to see you again.” He shook the man’s hand vigorously, then turned to the woman and actually offered a small bow. “Mrs. Sluder. I trust your stay with us will be comfortable.”
    He turned abruptly to the young fellow behind the counter. “Charlie,” he snapped, “help Mr. Sluder and his party with their luggage, will you?”
    â€œYes, sir!” came the quick response. Charlie was someone I’d been introduced to but didn’t know well, a college student who helped cover the front desk for Uncle Cy part-time.
    â€œI’m assuming you have Mrs. Sluder and me in our preferred room, Cyrus?” the man asked stiffly.
    â€œOh yes, indeed,” Uncle Cy answered. “The suite, of course. It’s ready and waiting for